Drawing is a new form of meditation, something the three of us can do together, a way of changing the scale of our apartment as I lavish attention on household objects, the flora and fauna of our diminished world. I never believed I could draw but every decade or so I give it a try: this morning’s orchid isn’t art but a memory, a watercolor monument to a moment snatched away from the timelessness of quarantine. Sun today after a spasm of snow finds me drowsing by the fire like a Parisian decadent: a journey around my room, au rebours